


Gioia

by GoldenHavoc



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Bondage, Bottom Sebastian, I'm rusty when it comes to tags but this is fun, Knife-play, M/M, Masturbation, Obscura is bae, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Ruvik is PISSED, Stefano being the glorious artsy shit he is, because that Sebass is too pretty to not be ruined, orgasm-denial, top Stefano, war memories, well he is always pissed can you blame him ?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenHavoc/pseuds/GoldenHavoc
Summary: Stefano's abundance of time in STEM did not alter the fact that his art remained a sweet, difficult and nerve-racking task. Neither the standards of his own imagination nor the considerable advantages which accompanied them made this burden easier. Due to the limited supply of people that Mobius was willing to put into grey terrain, the selection for acceptable subjects had considerably diluted and true grandeur was now as difficult to find as a barley grain in a mountain full of needlework. The agents of Mobius had long turned out to be a scarce diet for a constantly growing appetite like his own. What Stefano craved for were the means to perfection. But perfection usually did not come around the corner like movies and songs made it ought to be.It was all the more uplifting for the photographer when he occasionally found a stone between the human coals which could be polished into a splendid representative of its class.That said stone turned out to be a former cop of the KCPD and the father of little Lily, the STEM’s heart and lung, made the whole thing just more perfect in its irony.





	1. Scent and Taste

„ _Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it_.“

**Salvador Dali**

 

To create true art, sacrifices must be made.

A commandment, the consistency of it akin to the law of gravity. A scale evoking doom if it won’t be kept in balance.

The death court the ancient Egyptians had created for their deceased had such a scale on the ready. On one shell lay the heart, on the other Maat put her feather that measured sin against what was left of the human’s conscience - considering said conscience had existed at all. If the balance swung in, the dead man was free for paradise. Yet if the heart weighed more heavily during the sentence, a monster emerged from the depths of shadow and devoured his soul to bits.

You must see, it’s the same with art. Either you take the risk, present your sacrifice and hope that the values are right or you fall into the void of a dark stomach that digests and crushes you until you are no longer; only a forgotten point on a smooth surface, a pinch of dust that never lived. An unborn sound, nestled in the grave of most lifeless silence.

Stefano knew that. He knew it better than most for he had never truly feared more than to be forgotten without ever having created anything to remain in the world’s chiseled memory. Statues, monuments, wonders that bore his name for centuries, away from entertainment television and far from the supercilious gossip of drained coffee sipped in morning air. Ever since the fragments of the grenade had pulled out his right eye and spoiled his one sight to gift him another, visions lent him calm when his mind wrapped in chaos and numerous sources of pain. They showed him his fate in scenes more colourful than the flickers of the aurora were able to contain. He was destined to be a primordial rock, as were the genius of Michelangelo, the craft of Picasso and Pollock. A master unmatched like his well-kept, well-honoured Dali.

Van Gogh had cut off his ear. Stefano had paid his eye for it. He was worthy.

But it was not enough. More sacrifices needed to be made and delivered. A glory that was supposed to last demanded a fair amount of hearts to feast on and he was eager to put them all on his own scale proclaiming his end. Earlier it had been different, he more critical, the selection substantial and clumsy. A globe overrun by vermin while he plagued himself picking out the most decent of their kind to turn them into something worthy of being seen. All the time he had wasted separating the wheat from the chaff could not be recovered. Minutes, hours, years, heart beats. They were irretrievably lost to the ether.

But what he had gained through STEM was a glimpse at eternity. And though even eternity seemed barely enough to cover all the things he dreamt to accomplish, it was, indeed, all he could have ever hoped for.

That is, beside the wielding of his craft itself.

His abundance of time did not alter the fact that his art remained a sweet, difficult and nerve-racking task. Neither the standards of his own imagination nor the considerable advantages which accompanied them made this burden easier. Due to the limited supply of people that Mobius was willing to put into grey terrain, the selection for acceptable subjects had considerably diluted and true grandeur was now as difficult to find as a barley grain in a mountain full of needlework. The agents of Mobius had long turned out to be a scarce diet for a constantly growing appetite like his own. What Stefano craved for were the means to perfection. But perfection usually did not run around the corner like movies and songs made it ought to be.

It was all the more uplifting for the photographer when he occasionally found a stone between the human coals which could be polished into a splendid representative of its class.

That said stone turned out to be a former cop of the KCPD and the father of little Lily, the STEM’s heart and lung, made the whole thing just more perfect in its irony.

He looked at himself in the mirror, a surface on which the light of the lamps gleamed, unblemished by scratches and jumps. A rare piece in this dimension. Every microbe was subject to his power, but the mirrors stayed strangely resistant whether they were used, stained by dust or small. Most of them broke when he entered the room, others had already lined the floor beneath with a layer of splinters without him ever showing up at all. He could not figure out why, but it did not bother him enough to rack his brain about it. The mirror in front of him was a slender, old creature and did its service without to fog or distort. These conditions were nothing to complain about. And he was not keen on complaining when everything else worked in ways he was comfortable with.

He reached for the comb lying on top of the drawer and tapped a tune over its unyielding teeth before he carefully parted his hair on the left like he always did. Then he did his collar and swept a few creases off his suit jacket. He took a last good look at himself, checking from every angle. At last pleased with his appearance, he exited the room and walked down the hall. His beloved camera that hung around his neck nudged onto his chest with each step.

Of course, some stones were harder to polish than others. Luckily, Stefano was able to say that he had enormous experience in breaking them first.

 

* * *

 

The room was cluttered in darkness when he stepped in and let the door click shut.

He thought it fit. Even God had begun his work in darkness. He had been no less an amateur than a child that painted on the asphalt with chalk, and had born the world. What would he accomplish then, he, the mortal, who had brushed the chalk dust off his fingers long ago and exchanged it for oil-colors and red-light chambers? Great things. Great things, he knew.

Wherever his journey took him, each body he carved into was just another milestone on his way to achieving perfection. And in this case it had led him to ... him.

Having the man on his mattress, torso slightly curved and legs languidly spread like an unspoken invitation, he could not say that he minded that.

Stefano’s approach brought the smell of old sweat and gunpowder clasped tightly around his nose. The man‘s breaths echoed softly in the void, the calm pace a pleasing change to the hectic panting he had done earlier.

Stefano should know. He had watched every movement as he hunched and ran, quiet, hidden in dead corners, shrouded in shadow and the dazzling flash of Obscura's snapshot. He liked to watch. He liked to tease. He had done so with everyone who set foot across the border and managed to reach his door. Yet he had seldom attended the path of his prey with as much enthusiasm as with this one; it had been downright amusing to see him make his way. Especially when he encountered his Guardian.

His name was Sebastian Castellanos and he was not one for toll calls - if the voice croaking out of the walkie-talkie was any worth of information. The woman had called to him for several hours on repeat. At first it had been questioning, then angry. At last, an outright outgrowth of panic. The last one was of bigger annoyance than the others, the pitch of her yelling high and harsh like pine needles on sandpaper. It had given Stefano a migraine. He was rather sensitive in this aspect.

Tossed aside, the voice lay muffled under a flood of pillows for the time being. He'd have crushed the device under his heel had it not been hard as steel to begin with. A special alloy surrounded it, a material quite plain yet non-existent in his world. It had to be from the labs outside of STEM; Mobius material. Well, he would take care of that later. Besides, he did not want to risk scaring his guest away by destroying his little toy. Not before he allowed himself a good look on what Obscura had caught him this time.

Speaking of the dame, his faithful creature crouched in the back corner of the room. Her edged head turned in his direction at his steps, her lens a small point closely surrounded by the aperture and her soft sounds. Her toecaps scraped gently over the carpet. Eternally alert, eternally restless and deadly. Stefano held a red-leathered thumb against his lips. Obscura stared at it, the small point gaining the girth of an orange. Then she sunk back to her knees, silent, waiting. He had taught her well. His attention wavered back to his guest.

He had bound Sebastian’s arms to the bedstead with satin ropes. He was unconscious for now. Stefano preferred it that way.

Stepping closer, the carpet swallowed the sound underneath his feet. He reached out, his hand hovering inches above the sheets. The mere idea of contact made the smooth, pleasant feeling of velvet creep into his fingertips and roll in there like a sated asp. Stefano wondered if the man in his bed even knew what velvet was. He did not seem to be of the sort which appreciated such amenities. Not that Stefano put special emphasis on it; there were enough other features that kept his interest for his most persistent intruder aflame. He brought the other hand to his right eye, carefully pushing a few strands aside. Behind him the troubled cadence of two lace shoes emerged, translating concern. He ignored it. Obscura was too jumpy in such matters. He would need to have a word with her afterwards.

It had been long since Stefano had used the focus. None of the latest subjects had appeared worthy enough to be examined by his sharpest lens. There had been no doubt he’d regret this sooner or later, but he was no one to paint his future uglier than it was meant to be either. Others had done so long enough.

Thus the pain was far from surprise, but a hot and piercing mess once unfolded. He forbad himself to squint and barely moved as the iris stretched and adjusted to its environment. Soon it deemed difficult to find a suitable source for its attitude in the blackness. A prompt throb emerged behind Stefano's eyeball and in the brief notion of rage he called himself a fool. He lifted a hand, two fingers curling in.

From the opposite wall a pane of glass crunched into sight, diamond-shaped and clear. Threads of light, white as the satin Sebastian was bound with, spun into the room and wove stripes on his chest and the whiskers on his cheek. The incidence was enough to quit Stefano’s trouble and he hummed with relief when the burning subsided. Despite initial difficulties, the procedure went much smoother than what he had achieved when he first entered STEM. He was never fully spared from inconvenience, yet he wouldn’t have exchanged his precious tool for any relief. He would have never come as close to the nature of a camera again as he did now.

Only a madman would have given this opportunity up for the simple ease of ache.

Kneeling down, he formed a ring with his index finger and thumb to put it above his focus and slowly turn it to the right. The zoom recognized his gesture and brought him closer to Sebastian immediately, sections of fabric and faded scars brightening the lens. The knife he had thrown at him earlier had left a wound mere inches beside his heart and a dark blotch in the fabric. Cotton-wool, reeking of ash and adrenaline just like the rest of his body. Stefano caressed the seams that were drenched in blood. He smeared a drop between his fingers, marveling at its crumbling matter.

„Sebastian the cop“ healed well and quick, he noted. Another fine trait. Amusement purred near Stefano’s spine. This would be fun.

He looked on further, scanning the frame wheathered by past tragedy and age. His observation offered a strong neck and broad shoulders able to bear cascades of pain if needed; the shirt both were covered by gawked at him with its hideous, grey mesh, grime and marrow stains. It did not take long till Stefano’s gaze climbed lower and staggered on top of the ring on Sebastian’s left hand. Ensouled by curiosity, he zoomed in.

The gold had become dull, a fragment of elder times. Stefano felt a knack of disappointment when he found no dust crumbs gathering there. Apparently, Sebastian didn’t take off the ring much if not at all. It irked him. He put his finger on it. Sleek and cold. Just like the woman who had gone and broken Sebastian’s heart on her way. Stefano recognized the joke of it, but was cautious enough to swallow the laugh.

„Sebastian the husband“ had trouble letting go. Stefano understood that. Really.

He tried to pull the ring off.

A low murmur, laggardly hauled through chapped lips, settled the air. Stefano’s fingers stilled. He looked up, prepared for eyes to flutter and hands to close into fists. But the silence that followed made his concern grow wary again.

„Sebastian the fighter“ had bad dreams. Not uncommon for this place. Stefano decided to take care of the ring later though. Better safe than sorry.

He dipped down to Sebastian’s lower abdomen and lifted the hem to peek underneath. The first signs of coarse hair greeted his fingertips with a tickle, the skin between a soft and pale valley, curiously raw to his touch. Stefano thought it in dire need to be painted a shade more germane to the moist darkness his realm dwelt in. He tugged a few strands behind his ear, then freed the man of his trousers and unbuckled his belt, exposing firm hips and muscular thighs. Stefano clasped them, enjoying the thickness of flesh and the sharp bone underneath until he looked down further and saw bruises, purple and plump, scatter across the skin. Droplets of amethyst on sooted flesh. The corners of Stefano’s mouth dropped. None of them were his work. He found a large one stretched inches above Sebastian’s right hip bone and wondered what horrid creature he had fought off to get this kind of reminder.

The haunted in his realm were brutal at best, he had given most of them claws, tentacles and knives for his amusement. They did not tarry with leaving bruises, they clutched and ripped till chunks of flesh came off… he probably had been chased down by Theodore’s followers before he had crossed the border. Stefano quirked a brow as he remembered the animal-like obstrusities praying in those churches. He had never been one for religion nor flamethrowers in that matter. He traced the bruise’s shape as longing and indifferent as the humaneness he had lost back in the war.

„How long have you been hiding from me, _mi gioia_?“ he murmured. Sebastian did not answer, eyes closed, breathing calm. Stefano took it as permission to discard his boxers next and toss them carelessly to the floor. A mat of dark curls crowned what had been hid underneath. With steady hands planted on the mattress, Stefano crawled over to see Sebastian’s face up close.

Deep rings of black lay under sunken eyes, the features strained by the bitter weight of dreams. His frown was palpable even in sleep. Stefano could work with that. Unconscious models were easier to handle than wakeful ones though he preferred them rather active in the main event. It was a lenient pleasure to have them so pliant at first, but the vulnerability of sleep held its own place in the caverns of his heart.

[You might have compared it to the growing hunger of a wolf, sinking its fangs into lungs too eased to scream. The illusion of peace has always been a delicacy for the troubled from what we know.

And we know not much.]

Stefano tore his camera from his jacket and took a first, swift shot. Of a series, he decided. Or two, even. He wasn’t sure yet in how many ways he would take Sebastian apart, yet he was not averse to doing repetitions either if the result of prior deemed satisfying enough. Most of his subjects had not proven steadfast towards his procedures to do so. Stefano hoped Sebastian would at least _try_ to keep up to the expectations he had set on him. He was a special case after all.

He pondered if he should dispose his shirt too. Instead, he pulled his knife and cut a line into the collar, guiding it fluently to the hem. The fabric gave way with ease, the feeble remains falling into his open palms like butter in the sun. Pleased, he spread the cloth and arranged it to Sebastian’s sides. It reminded him of the tattered wings of an angel fled from home, numb to every caress known to man. As coarse and blood-stained as Sebastian was, Stefano thought the image suited him well.

He took another picture balancing on his knees. The room lit up when the flashlight wore upon it, boring colour into scars and folds likewise. The upper body dipped in a radiant glow, the black sheets further emphasizing the effect. Stefano allowed himself to shudder at the intensity of his own picture.

He needed this body to come alive under his hands, writhing and spasming with release. Tormented by a frenzy so persistent and pure that he grew desperately sick with it. Again. And again.

When he brought the camera down, two eyes, dark and hot as the depths of Hades, turned towards him. He halted, both disappointment and excitement fighting their way through his veins. As always, the latter won.

„Good evening, Sebastian.“ The smile was genuine as it climbed his face. „My sincerest apologies we couldn’t meet under more… favorable conditions than these.“

Sebastian stared. He tried to get up, failed. He tried again, realization about his state whittling sharp into his cheeks and deepening the crease between his brows. The shackles strained with his effort. Stefano put a hand on his biceps, gently ushering it back down.

„I wouldn’t do that if I were you,“ he said, worried that his canvas would damage itself to bits before he could paint it properly. „This material might feel soft now, but will slice through bone if you pull hard enough. The messes I had here… some of them were rather unpleasant.“ He sighed at the memory. Of course it took ages to craft something equally resistant and elegant enough to blend in with the background - but he had several test subjects to practice on since then. There would be no accidents tonight.

„Besides, I’m sure you’d like to embrace your daughter with both arms attached when you finally reunite.“

„Untie me,“ Sebastian said, his voice a hoarse croak still ragged by sleep. The timbre rippled through Stefano like glass splinters on gauze. He tapped a finger against his lips.

„Tempting, but no“, The finger sunk back down to Sebastian’s face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Immediately, Sebastian turned his head to get it off. Stefano hummed. „See? You’re way too fidgety. Too much movement blurs my pictures. As your journey should have taught you, I’m a professional. I can’t risk any mishaps.“ Sebastian’s eyes narrowed.

„Whatever game you’ve planned out in that fucked up mind of yours, I’m not going to play it,“ he growled, lifting his gaze to check his surroundings. Stefano smirked. They were so endearing when they thought they could argue. Or flee.

„My dear, I don’t think you have much of a choice.“ He reached out again, running his hand over Sebastian’s naked stomach. He saw muscles tighten where the blaze of his touch crept close, coupled with a dangerous glint in amber. „Though I’d certainly prefer it if you surrendered to me willingly. One part of you will. Always does in the end, anyway.“

He dipped lower and brushed the limp curve of Sebastian’s uncut cock. Sebastian twitched at the touch, a snarl in his throat. Stefano tilted his head. He put his hand around the shaft, enthralled by the velvet thickness he was greeted by.

„Get your fucking hand off that.“

„Are you sure? You’re bigger than most of my canvases. Michelangelo liked them light-built. I don’t mind working with both.“

„I said-“

Stefano tightened his grip and Sebastian’s words were lost in a stutter.

„The body is a treacherous thing, Sebastian,“ he said, already enjoying the way the name rolled off his tongue. „So yielding to pleasure, no matter who gives or takes it. I’ve always deemed humans as savages for that, hungry for the smallest hint of care.“ Raking the slit with the pad of his thumb, he started with slow strokes. His eyes did not leave Sebastian’s face as it contorted from bland hostility into utter, blissful shock. „They tear one heart from its chest to stitch in another,“ he continued, „It’s what turns their suffering into poetry. I wonder what verses you will spill once I’m done with you.“

A startled gasp that probably meant to be a curse was the answer he got as he massaged the bulging vein protruding near the cock’s underside. Stefano left it at that in favour of concentrating fully on his act.

The slow rise of Sebastian’s cock was a familiar yet fascinating view to indulge in. Stefano took his time to savor each inch that grew large and red in his hand, the leather emitting squeaks as beads of precum began to ooze from the tip. They slicked his movements, ever followed by stray grunts and muted obscenities, bitten down by teeth. Stefano breathed in deep when a fresh break of sweat spiced the air.

He fumbled for his camera and took a few shots, never stopping the task at hand. Carefully, he rolled down the foreskin to expose the shiny glans. That the cock was uncircumcised did not surprise him in the least. Taking Sebastian’s Spanish roots into account, he bet on a catholic upbringing though he did not think him as a grandly faithful man. Stefano, in this regard, had his own special relationship with „God“ to entertain himself. Theodore might have found his saviour between the pages of a bible and a cross necklace around his neck; Stefano had found him in hands trenched in flesh and the cries of broken men.

Considering this, he currently did what every good disciple worth his salt was bound to do; perform worship at his altar.

„I’m sure you are used to take the upper hand in the bedroom,“ he said, absorbed in thought. He lifted a finger as some would do to scold a child, a single, milk-white drop running down. He was tempted to lick it off only to catch Sebastian’s reaction. „Allow me to suggest a role-reversal this time. You seem fit for receiving rather than giving.“

Sebastian’s eyes widened at the implication, knees drawing in. Stefano’s lips thinned out. A flick and chains bundled around the detective’s ankles too, holding him in place. Stefano saw him struggle against them in an instant, the blue veins on his arms bulge against their layered prison. It made the fabric of his shackles cut deeper into the skin, but the pain did not hinder its bounded. In no time, blood started to trickle from his wrists and down his arms.

Stefano watched their route. When they reached the elbows, he closed his eyes. Opening them again, the satin had grown twice as long and twisted around the forearms, pressing every movement to a halt. Sebastian lashed out nevertheless and the attempt looked as pitiful as it was imposing. More blood gathered underneath the fabric, dampened it till red patches formed an irregular pattern akin to a hospital blanket. Stefano observed its birth with rapture, highly aware how all this strength bound for his pleasure would strangle itself dry if it wasn’t calmed in time. Reluctantly, he brought his camera in front of his face.

„Smile for me, please,“ he said. Sebastian grimaced.

„Like fuck I -“

One click, rash light and Sebastian’s words caught in slow-motion along with the entirety of his body.

The only active part that remained were his wondrous eyes locked on the photographer. However, the stare soon resettled itself in its particular balance between surprise and disgust. Stefano chuckled. Humans were predictable pets. He set the camera aside.

„Listen; I appreciate your eagerness to help me finding a theme here,“ He tucked a loose strand behind Sebastian’s ear, the gesture so gingerly wielded it could have almost been confused with tenderness. „but I’d be happier if you’d leave the decoration to me.“ Torn between anticipation and sorrow, he reached higher and caressed the spotted fabric as well. „Look what you’ve done to yourself. Are you always this messy?“

No answer from Sebastian’s side, of course. Just never-ending anger spilling from an opened mouth. Stefano hesitated, marveling at the brute caught in time. Like a fly in amber as he so loved to compare his works to. He could have got up and left him like that, a piece in the making, a small secret veiled in the promiscuity inside his private quarters only he had the keys to. Gloriously helpless in his outrage, fully aware of every glance Stefano sent him, studied him, carved him up, put those droplets on a string and called them pearls. It was far too easy to imagine the slice along with the reaction that never came.

Then, in a blink, he dissolved the rigor. It deemed unforgivable to leave a diamond in the rough for mere indulgence. And, all reason aside; it was boring when his bedmate didn’t put up a fight.

„will!“ Sebastian bit back the moment he came back to life. He sounded less hotheaded than before though, partly aware of how much that would cost him otherwise. He relied on staring his self-proclaimed enemy down.

„What change does it make? Let’s be real here: You’ll slice me up for good either way, bleed me out via time-freeze, throw rose petals and shit. I’ve seen what you did to the others.“ Stefano raised a brow.

„Oh no, I think we’ve been the victim of a misunderstanding here. I don’t plan to deal with you like I dealt with them.“ He shifted till he sat enthroned on Sebastian’s lap, drinking in the choked-down groan his warm weight unleashed.

„They were expendable. Plain. A token for, ah - creative dalliance you could say.“ He leaned down, deliciously aware of the man’s cock trapped beneath the pressure of his cashmere-covered ass. He tested the friction by rubbing against it in laggard motions. He had to stifle a moan himself when the flesh throbbed towards him in reply. Sebastian’s grunt joined in unison. 

He chose to induldge in the feeling a bit more before he regained speach. When he did, his breath brushed close to the corner of Sebastian’s mouth. „You’re too fine material for gimmicks. I will mould you first.“

He licked a strap across the cut he had put near Sebastian’s left eye and was met with a well-aimed clout at his chin. He dodged it.

A heartbeat later, the ridged edge of his knife pressed smooth and promising to the detective’s balls. Sebastian tensed up at the sudden chill.

„Surely you remember this useful gadget of mine?“ Stefano whispered. His voice lay loving and wet against the shell of Sebastian’s ear. The latter would have tried to hit him again if he had dared to move.

„Hard to forget something that tore a good portion of my flesh.“ Words, hisses, pushed through clenched teeth. Stefano chuckled lowly. He gave an experimental snap of his hips, making Sebastian feel the heat of his need and the cold threat of castration at the same time. An intoxicating blend of desire and fear poured into his features. It filled Stefano’s core with warmth. He nuzzled against his temple, inhaling the scent of his salt-sweet skin.

„Mhm, speaking of hard… I would stay still if I were you. I have a knack for foreplay and don’t want to drench the bed in blood this early.“ Sebastian huffed.

„You think you’re funny, don’t you?“

„It’s funny to me because I know who’s in control. Do you?“

Sebastian kept quiet which held a confession in itself. Stefano rewarded it by mouthing down his throat. He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses and breached the chest matted with dark curls of hair. He took a nipple between his teeth and suckled on it till it was erect and alert to his attentions. He rather felt than heard the man’s breath hitch when he moved to its counterpart and sucked with vigor at the bud, his free hand tucking the camera away to scrape into Sebastian’s side and hold him in position as he started to bite the soft flesh. Death threats and tossing limbs followed in its wake. True to his warning, Stefano made a shallow cut into the left testicle, followed by Sebastian’s pained grunt and staggering movement. Droplets of blood fell and smeared the sheets. Stefano brought the knife to his lips and lapped at it. Sebastian’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

„Told you. Next time, they’re off,“ Stefano said. His captive growled.

„Didn’t you say I am ’too fine material’ to be damaged?“ The sarcasm was strong in this one. Stefano patted his chest lovingly.

„I said I’d mould you,“ he corrected. „But if you don’t behave properly, I’ll have to take… adjustments first.“ Stefano sighed, his expression descending into repentance. A thin rivulet of blood ran from his chin. He licked the metallic taste from his lips. „It pains me more than you to do so, believe me. I abhor the thought of butchering my work like that for this particular use.“

Sebastian stared at him in utter disbelief.

„You **don’t** plan on killing me?“ Stefano paused. He had been asked this kind of question several times already - one way or another - but the way Sebastian did, humored him. He asked much less out of fear than of honest astonishment. Poor dear. He had not been able to become acquainted with Union the way Stefano had when he first arrived. Now every profane creature out there aimed to shove some fresh meat between their teeth, keeping their prey on the run till it was sick and diluted.

As every predator he, too, craved blood - but, in contrast to every predator, he was not allowed to be lavish, either.

„Not yet,“ he said. Considered it, the whole affair. „Depends on how the shooting goes. There is much more I’d like to do to you. Much more I’d like you to explore about yourself before you crumble.“ Sebastian remained suspicious.

„And what is your gain out of… this? Beyond the fucking?“ he stressed. Stefano read oblivion on his face. Unadultered. It was charming, really. He smiled.

Lining up, he kissed him hard and drank in the taste of the well-known resentment held by an unresponsive mouth.

„A new highlight,“ he said, a lingering peck pressed to the now bleeding flesh of Sebastian‘s lower lip. „in the gallery you‘ve destroyed.“ 

Some strands had fallen back over both his eyes in his rush, filtering his view in slices of flesh and fabric. He sat back and arranged them so that he could take in the sight laid bare before him once more. 

Sebastian‘s chin and mouth were smudged red, adding a nefarious touch, his arousal parted in equal shares of anger, revulsion and self-loathing. Sweat glistened on his chest and the hollow of his throat like moonlight on lake water. Stefano, pleased, set the knife aside and took a shot. He didn’t mind that Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut soon as the flash hit him. It would only deepen the impact once it developed.

He exchanged the camera to get a hold of his cock again and pumped it to the beat of his own heart. He circled the head right away, gladly pinpointing the moment agony fell back into honey-brown eyes turned tar and muscles taut.

„Beautiful,“ he whispered. His own abandoned erection had left a wet patch on the front of his pants long ago. Sebastian stared at the bulge in horror. „If you could only see you now. I should have splayed you on marble.“

„Fuck, you‘re one crazy son of a bitch.“ Stefano accelerated the pace.

Shaking at last, Sebastian‘s head sank down into the pillows, little pants escaping him as Stefano rubbed over the glans firmly in reply, coating the shaft in the beads of his precum.

„But you’re - you‘re good at this.“

Stefano didn‘t answer. He sought another kiss, carnal hunger driving him forward. And this time, he wasn‘t denied the treat.

Sebastian forgot to lash out when his lips cracked apart and an eager tongue danced between his teeth to intertwine with his own. The taste of dark berries and plums encloaked his senses like poison, fooling him head-down into a feeling of ecstasy that was nothing but terribly wrong in his situation.

The last time he had been kissed with such force the metallic clang of blood and guts stuck between his canines.

 _This is not happening._ he told himself. His hips began to move of their own accord, slowly matching the rhythm the photographer dictated, his blood a thunderous roar somewhere far away. 

_This is only in my mind. Like before._

_What was_ before _though._

The rot of burnt sunflower seeds tore into him like a knife. The strain on his arms weakened, the burn of his cuts subsiding as his muscles loosened up with the phantom pain hitting him deep at his core. _Phantom_ pain because it had been a phantom who caused it. Pain because there had been pain beforehand and pain after and it was so hard to concede what lay beneath.

It was all a matter of perspective, some would have said. Just another obstacle to overcome, another station on the highway to hell, another needle to plunge into severed grey brain matter. Oh, there had been brains, brains all over the place. And torn limbs on piss-stained wooden floor. And sewer smell, knee-deep, soaked to the bone. And barbed-wired safes. Sebastian closed his eyes, his mouth wide open, demanding fresher air than what cowered in the caskets of his memory. He groaned when teeth clashed against teeth and he felt the very life being sucked out of him instead, the odor of blood so familiar and close to his heart. It was even more alarming to discover that he liked the feeling. That _he had gotten used to it_. Back there. The last time. Before.

 

_(... It gets lonely in here, doesn‘t it?_

**_You know it does._ **

_you were lonely, weren‘t you?)_

_you were always_

…

_(Ruvik?)_

Stefano moaned into his mouth, his approval of the change of behaviour evident. Sebastian reciprocated mechanically. Stefano‘s upper lip was soft where his lower was lush, a condition he found to be rather sensitive when he grew bold and nibbled and pulled at the latter with his teeth. What he earned were a surprised mewl of hot breath, more tongue and fresh blood mingling with his own. It seemed that the tiniest act of acceptance sent the artist into new levels of rapture. Sebastian would keep that in mind for later use.

Both their mouths were wet and filfthy with the taste of copper when they were done. For the first time, the light from the window framed a soft blush on Stefano’s cheeks, admittedly striking against the white skin. He had slighty gotten out of breath, lips swollen, eye unblemished blue as the Nordic sky. Sebastian observed him. Quiet. For one moment, he looked like a lithe man lost in pleasure and not the monster he had allowed himself to become.

In another life, he’d have called him pretty and taken him home for that.

Then, Stefano embedded his chin on top of his heart and spoke, tearing the illusion apart.

„Mhm, see? what did I tell you?“ he asked, accent thick. He relished in the hammering pulse his captive set. „It’s more fun when you join in.“

Sebastian sighed.

„I don’t have time for this.“ His eyelids fluttered when Stefano’s nimble fingers massaged the base of his cock. „Spill yourself on me and take your pics if that’s what you’re after. I’ve had that before. I’m not here for your petty games.“ 

The affectionate glint in Stefano’s sight dulled abruptly. He gave Sebastian’s cock a brutal tug that had him yelp.

„You _had_ time to break into my property and ruin half of my precious works in the great hall.“ His voice was serene, but his left eye shone with wrath. „You really have a thing for killing the mood, Seb. This? A _game_? Do you even have an idea of how much effort I‘ve put into those pieces?! You should have been killed for the demolition of one alone!“

„And why the fuck don’t you do it?! I could almost think you _like_ me being a pain in your ass.“ Stefano’s mouth pinched. He sat up.

„Well. One has to make sacrifices for his art. Besides, you’re not trite like the others. You don’t run - you attack. You amuse me.“ He tried to regain his calm, gaze dipping lower. „Since the damage you caused is higher than average, I decided that it’s only fair you provide me with the atonements I deem necessary.“

„I don’t give a shit about your art,“ said Sebastian in all honesty. Something in Stefano’s expression grew dangerous at that. Manic. It gave Sebastian goosebumps slithering up his spine.

„Oh, but didn’t I tell you before? Once we’re done, you’ll be art yourself. _My_ art. You’ll belong to me. That’s your atonement to fulfill.“ The words churned in Sebastian’s stomach with pointed teeth. They were far too familiar to not be taken seriously.

„You‘ve got the wrong candidate for that, just saying,“ he replied drily. „That kind of bullshit didn’t work on me last time, it better won’t - dammit!“

If Stefano had known that it only took a mouth down his cock to shut the detective up for good, he might have pursued this option earlier. Anyway, he enjoyed how Sebastian’s eyes rolled back and how the remains of resistance fell apart when he licked along the vein protruding near the cock’s head.

Though hate circulated in Sebastian’s voice, he arched further into Stefano’s hot, silken mouth with his struggle. The cock lay heavy and blood-filled on his tongue, its heady, primal taste a welcome change to the wine that had bathed his gums earlier. Stefano hollowed out his cheeks to suck him down further, beginning to bob his head up and down, creating a messy, blissful rhythm. The mewl he got in return was pure delight to him.

He seldom allowed another man’s flesh to tickle his palate. The fault of his own pickiness. Most specimen who stumbled into his territory were offensively plain to look at and talk to. They held no fire in their watered eye, no strength in their shaking limbs to aspire his own. They would wail and crumble in a corner, their sweat mingling with dirt, pleading for a chance to get out of their nightmare alive. Some had soiled themselves when Stefano politely asked for their attendance in his most recent collage. Barely intriguing enough for a photo, even less for a decent fuck. Stefano had standards after all, and, contrary to a patron of the arts like Apollo, he preferred herculean traits to a sweet weakling that just sobbed their way through. Even though he would not have minded to hear those sounds from Sebastian now as he brought him deep into his throat and swallowed. 

„Stop! Stop - _oh_ “ Sebastian bucked off the bed and Stefano made a mental note to use teeth more often around the base.

When Sebastian‘s movements grew unsteady, Stefano freed his cock with a luscious pop that resounded in the room, a thread of saliva still clinging to the weeping tip. He smacked his lips and the thread broke.

 _Hercules_ was ablaze with mortal rage now, cock hard and leaking on his stomach. His expression portrayed a paradox of gritted teeth and crimson skin -  as pretty and unbridled as a demigod ought to be. Or a carnivore. His mind raced with the thought of how he should take him, the taste in his mouth inflaming his every sense. 

He needed to see his face when he came undone. This harsh, edged face. So expressive, unlike the other models he had.

„I’ve always enjoyed the art of anatomy. Its forms, its… nimbleness. The flesh,“ Stefano murmured. He turned to bow and plant feathery kisses on Sebastian’s inner thigh. The pauses between his words filled with the wet shapes of his tongue, occassionally added by teeth nibbling skin. At last, he pressed his cheek to a deeper bite and let the sweet-metallic blood mingle with his scarred cheek. He blew at the skin beside and was entranced by the goosebumps it shed. All trouble aside, Sebastian reacted so neatly. Like he was made for this. For his process of creation.

„I like how it bends to my will. And you will too.“

With one arm securing Sebastian‘s right leg, he let his hand travel over the firm roundness of his ass and test the supple flesh before he glided between his cheeks.

„Relax please.“

Stefano had already worked a second digit in before Sebastian had time to realize what was happening and wish him to hell all over again.

Stefano’s fingers were slippery and wet with an oil-like, thick fluid that Sebastian was not sure he’d want to know the origin of. It dripped cold and sticky into his insides, making him squirm and whimper at the unwelcome intrusion forcing its way through his body. He had taken cock before, but it had been ages that he had been stretched for one. A mosaic of pain, embarrassment and ardent, aching pleasure flushed his face and neck. He turned his head aside, eyes dark and overflown by emotions he was too afraid to name. It was only when the fingers moved further, breaching and prodding at the delicate bundle of nerves that curses returned to sweep under his breath and changed his shudder to weak trembling.

Stefano watched the ring of muscles twitch and hummed when they contracted around him, followed by the tiniest flutter of compliance. The leather of his glove did not hinder the heat to seep into his own skin, the tightness he felt greedy to be filled and promising to touch. He couldn’t wait to pound it raw.

„Don’t be coy, love. I know it’s not your first time.“ He reached forward, fondly guiding his slicked up fingertips across Sebastian’s heaving chest before he resumed his act. 

„A rebel against your parents’ religion, I assume,“ he continued, tone casual. „I’d have loved to meet you in your youth. Can’t remember to have seen you around Krimson City back then.“ He plunged deeper into the anus, the squelch of stretching flesh his faithful companion as he went on prying him open. „Your colleagues might have told stories about me, fables even, but it’s not the same as meeting face to face, is it? There are so many things I could have shown you.“He smiled, replaying old murder tableaus in the theatre of his mind. „I still can, though.“

He slipped a third finger in and started a fast rhythm that had Sebastian cry out. He threw his head back as his hole clenched, desperately trying to adjust. Stefano cooed at the sight. Usually, he would have whipped out another photo but he had not expected the sight to be this enticing either. He chose to relish the moment as it came. And came. And came.

The show was worth the while till a constant stream of precum had formed and rolled off the engorged cock’s carmine tip. Judging by Sebastian’s erratic-growing movements and the almost violent distortion of his face, he was close to burst. Stefano licked his lips.

„Obscura,“ he called. His gaze did not leave Sebastian for one second. „be so kind…“

The graceful paddle of feet filled the air, followed by the rash click of a camera as Stefano doubled his pace. The wet smack of his glove added its drab melody to the mix of ragged breathing and moans. Sebastian watched him from beneath with one eye open, trembling all over.

„Sick bastard.“ It came out much less hateful and more frantic than it was meant to be. Stefano tilted his head. He found it rather cute, this unyielding anger.

„Why? It’s not my fault your state is so alluring, dear. I’ll have plenty photos to show you later.“ Stefano twisted his hand and returned to the sweet spot he had been looking for. Sebastian’s mouth grew slack, breath stuffed in his throat as the fingers hit his prostrate.

„Fuck.“ Betrayed by instinct he tried to spread his legs, giving Stefano more space to slide in and change his angle. „Fuck Fuck, oh god-“

Stefano’s erection pulsed against the inseam of his pants, demanding its own release.

„There we go“, he murmured. His fingers curled, wresting a sob from the troubled body. „Open up for me. You’ll need it. I’m quite the size.“

„ _Fuck you_.“ Stefano chuckled.

„It is you who will beg to be fucked. You can start with that now.“

„I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I will-“, Sebastian’s eyes stabbed holes into the ceiling above, mouth gaping and dry. His pupils were full-blown, two dark pools in the morass of his lust, every nerve on fire. Stefano smirked. Perfect. He was ready for him.

„Maybe I’ll let you try. In our next session.“ He retracted his hand and opened the zipper, positioning himself between Sebastian’s waiting, ruined thighs. „If you’re good,“ he purred, „I might even send a photo to your Lily.“


	2. Cut and Paste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day or Night y'all,
> 
> Since I have decided to split this thing into three parts instead of two for reasons (also I'm honest, I do dig trilogies, hell knows why) another chapter will follow after this one. Cut and Paste is, unlike Scent and Taste, rather about plot aka taking a dip into Stefano's thought processes and past. I do like calm moments like these.  
> Again, I have no friggin clue about said past yet, so I wrote a bit of my own version there.
> 
> I also wanted to take this opportunity to thank you for five comments, 32 subscriptions, 24 bookmarks and 81 kudos. I mean what the hell guys? It's been just up since last Sunday XD. I really didn't expect to have so much reaction so early... but wow. That keeps motivation up among other things haha.
> 
> I also thank you for your... hm, joyful screams? Yes, I'll take them as such. If only Stefano would have had a similiar crowd cheering for his every artwork... let's say, as a writer and putting creative content on display myself, I understand his frustration quite well.
> 
> But, my babbling aside, have fun with this chapter. It's shorter than the first I think and there will be no explicit smut here (coming in chapter 3, yes), but I hope you won't mind that. 
> 
> Happy reading.

The shackles had never been torn.

After having taken numerous enhancements on them, he did not expect them to. That was his fault. And his fault turned out to be Sebastian's only advantage.

The echo of tearing fabric sang in the air. Stefano barely had time to compare it to the sound of a butterfly being crushed when Sebastian’s fist connected with his cheek, the ring as bone met flesh exploding in his ears. His eye closed. He embraced his offering and fell back.

The second it flung open, he found himself on the mattress, Sebastian on top of him and both arms pinned to each side of his head. He was engulfed by muscles strained; caged by bones and the rage they built under. It was the most pleasant prison he had ever encountered.

„What do you know about my daughter?!“ Sebastian yelled. Haggard breath blew the last strands out of Stefano’s face and exposed his focus. The acuity of the man above turned so intense he forgot to breathe. The heat above was overwhelming, the cock draped on top of his own a solid, dangerous weight. It was smothering, it was hot, _hot_.

It was exhilarating.

„More than you, apparently,“ he wrought out his throat.

„Where is she?“

„Not as far as you think.“ Again, Stefano found his smile, though it slightly shook at the edges. The taste of metal bloomed on his lips anew. He reached up and folded his arms around Sebastian’s thick, perspiring neck. „But what good are you to her if you’re hanging dead in my basement with your cock shoved into your mouth?“ His voice was nectar-sweet.

Sebastian forced his head backwards on his hair, baring his throat. The burn of his grip ran through Stefano’s body like a cut-open cabel emitting sparks near a puddle of water.

„What do you want?“ asked Sebastian, dangerously low, feral, even. Stefano looked up to him through his lashes.

„Devotion.“ He tightened his grip around the man who would murder him whenever he thought it fit. „Nothing but your reckless abandon, Sebastian. Can you manage that?“

Sebastian stayed quiet at the question. Stefano forgave him his hesitance. The poor creature was probably still overwhelmed by the sheer offer he made. The ache of his need might not have furthered his concentration either. He broke his grip to card his fingers through dark, sweat-slicked hair and stubble, mingling them with traces of precome and blood.

„Every artist needs his muse,“ he continued softly. The pad of his thumb lazily brushed the old scar that split Sebastian’s brow in two. „Considering the predecessors, you’d be a more than decent choice for my purposes. Would you not like to be worshipped? And claimed? I’d treat you well.“

Sebastian loosened his grip on Stefano’s hair to clasp his hand and pull it slowly from his face. Stefano felt the bones of his wrist grate against each other when he did. He could break them this instant if he wanted to. Something in the way he observed him; the vacant stare his eyes grew into told Stefano it wouldn’t have been his first time doing that.

For a fair moment, Stefano was reminded of the war he’d been in. It did not irk him as much as he was used to.

„Tell me where Lily is and you’ll have me off your back.“ Stefano chuckled.

„Do I look like I want to?“ Sebastian glared at him.

„Either that or you’ll die in these sheets.“ Stefano laughed louder, closing his eye. A pet threatening its master. Adorable. This man _really_ was something.

„Oh, darling. Do I seem frightened to you?“ he asked, a smile plastered on his lips.

Sebastian opened his mouth to answer. He was cut off by Obscura who pushed him off the man and threw him into the wall. There was a sickening crunch where bone met cement, but Stefano didn’t think anything was broken. He had trained Obscura not to damage his subjects beyond repair when he was not finished with them yet; even though he should have probably calculated her own wrath in those matters too.

The coughing Sebastian shed lashed wet through the room. Obscura, much merrier than before, hopped on the bed for a better angle and took shots of Sebastian’s crumpled frame poorly trying to balance itself on scraped elbows. She murmured and squealed, getting hastier by the second. Stefano stood up to give her much needed space to move around, brushing dust from his pants. Who was he to deny her such joy?

„I’m afraid we have to stop here. I’ve asked for your devotion, not your… abhorrence. I can only tolerate so much disobedience,“ he said pointedly.

Sebastian’s answer was to cough up bloodied saliva on the carpet. It nearly reached Stefano’s stand, which was a rather impressive thing to accomplish. Stefano remained unfazed, the whole scene a pallet of heat, the click of the camera soothing to his ears. Curiosity led his focus between Sebastian’s legs. His hard cock still leaked despite apparent anguish, staining the floor further.

„Let me go, asshole!“ Sebastian demanded, voice torn.

Stefano wagged a finger at him, careful not to even throw _a glance_ at his face. It would have ruined the moment. He trusted Obscura to take care of that detail.

„Don’t take that tone on me now. It might change my mind and kill you on the spot as you so generously suggested.“ He took a look at his hands and the liquids they were soiled by. His cock throbbed in his pants even now. He looked aside. „Obscura, keep an eye on him, would you? Have fun, but put him back to bed when you’re finished. I’d like to wash up.“

His creature bowed her head in agreement before she continued the deed. He watched her for a moment longer, eyes soft. Then he turned and walked away.

He deliberately ignored the gale of curses mingled with Obscura’s moans growing louder that accompanied his way out the door and into the hallway.

Being denied had never proven to be such fun and chagrin at the same time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A hot shower was in order.

Otherwise meticulous in his tidiness, the path to the bathroom was covered with various layers of cloth once Stefano reached the vitreous door. Already barefoot on the cream-white tiles he plucked the gloves off his fingers with his teeth, an unseen tear at lid’s brim, a vulcano erupting in his gut; rising; vomiting; corroding. The steam clawed heavily onto his back as he trod in its midst, greeting it as an old friend. He jerked off fast with the water spraying down his head, hand unsteady as he grasped and squeezed his leaking shaft. Despite his impatience, something held him back until he pictured Sebastian’s helpless face and the sweat glistening on his quivering upper lip as he took him deep.

Eye shut and the name in mind, his mouth gaped open and drank in wet when sparks of intense pleasure rippled through his spasming body. He came with a muffled cry that gurgled down the drain, conjoint by thick lines of semen. He watched them shakingly vanish, breath ragged and clad by lust spent. Another one of those paintings only an empty room would be guard to.

He had many of those; his shame chambers. One of the reasons he had built this mansion so big the Buckingham Palace would have bowed before its dimensions in quavering horror.

Wrapped in nothing but a satin blue bathrobe and socks, droplets clinging to his neck, he walked down the winged stairs of the foyer. A small cabinet, one of many, was situated at their foot, filled with bottles of various kind. He reached in without looking, the choice of wine not as important to him as his spontaneous goal to get blissfully drunk. They were all of decent if not divine taste; he wouldn’t have stored them in his gustatory memory elsewise.

What he took was a Chardonnay that had matured in an oak-barrel for three years before it was squeezed into a green glass bottle, tied with a gold-colored label and banished on a nameless shelf. It was of no special vintage which fit Stefano’s mood since he did not intend on celebrating anything special. Yet. That would come later.

Pitching the cork from its neck with a pop, he steered it into his glass and watched as the wine splattered peacefully in the translucent depth before he made his way into the dining room.

The interior was of pompous yet elegant nature. Its design followed the later successors of the Italian Renaissance, the _maniera_ , a period distinguished by the illusion of infinite space and floridness. Stefano wasn’t too fond of its measurements, but he liked to play with them. Helical patterns dabbled the walls along with his framed works while headless statues lined every corner of the room like guardians and prisoners alike. They stared back at Stefano with hollow eyes when he entered.

He turned the bottle in his hand, observing how the ceiling light reflected on the glass. He was marginally surprised when his gaze fell upon the year it was said to have been filled. 1985. Intentional or not, he had picked this bottle for the ninth time now.

A small smile crept onto his mouth. Nostalgia still got the best of him, it seemed.

He remembered the day he had found this wine and declared it his personal lucky charm even though he had never gotten a real taste of its fruit. Because that was what his mother would have done, too. She had always believed in powers palpable beyond the Ave Maria and bible psalms. Fate and circumstance. Back in the war, he had understood her more than ever; because he had not found God in those lands, mourning and kneeling beside the dead. Only this bottle. 1985. The year of his birth.

When he closed his eyes, first, there was always the heat burning behind his eyelids.

The kind of heat that makes you want to draw a knife and cut off your skin to wear it as a bandana so that it does not hinder your own existence anymore. The plenary, unflawed, broiling heat only a desert can provide.

Then, the sweetish-stale taste of copper on his dry tongue, the penetrating itch under sweaty armpits and the pressing of the shoes he had taken from a dead soldier of his unit, two numbers too small. He smelled putrefaction in the air and tied his scarf tighter around his mouth to keep the content of detached skin particles flowing into his throat and stomach as low as possible. It had been three days and two nights that he had dared to drop it at all.

The bottle stood in a ruin that had once been a grocery store if the flat-stepped plastic bag on the floor and the crushed cans next to the soda machine were of any proof. He also did not believe that the frozen chillers in the back area had always been empty. He directed the beam of his flashlight into the box. According to the lack of moisture, the ice had been scratched from the walls before the missing current could make it melt. The people had taken everything what they could carry before they left.

Everything except for the bodies, of course. And a bottle of cheap Chardonnay.

„Valentini! Where the hell are you?!“

Stefano hardly bothered to turn his head nor answer the voice’s owner whose steps echoed nearing his position. He spotted two strips of dried blood on the ground instead, its reason unknown to him. He snapped a last photo and straightened up. Aside from the refridgerators, the room held nothing but a gallery of emptiness, excluding other significant discoveries he could have made.

„ _Diamine_!“

Stefano rolled his eyes. Hell. Mami had found him.

 _Mami_ , alias Andrea Sala and self-proclaimed leader of their small squad since a bomb had torn Sergeant Mendoza to pieces, had spent the last few days doing nothing but bathe in the light and importance of his new role. Half of the commandos given by him to the soldiers at regular intervals - and, of course, his favourite photographer Valentini - turned out to be pointless at best, and their febrile undertaking to reach the nearest base receded into the distance with every hour he remained at the head of the group. To Stefano he was a plague on legs, intellectually useless and aesthetically ruined by the peasant milieu engraved in his blunt visage; a screaming nuisance altogether. He might have fought his battles and made himself a name and rank somewhere in the south, but they were in the north now - and his leadership qualities proved to be no less than abysmal when all they needed was a minimum of guidance.

Stefano had never made pretence of what he thought about people he deemed beneath his precious attention. Thus the bolts of self-indulgent anger sent out of fiery black eyes into his direction were an absolutely acceptable greeting to him. He probably wouldn’t have acknowledged his presence otherwise.

„Didn’t I tell you we need to stay together?“ Sala barked like the dog he was. His boots swirled up pinches of dust from the ground while he stomped into the room.

„I’ve just explored the situation, Sir. This room is secured,“ Stefano replied good as gold in the most nasal tone he could manage. He did a sweeping gesture to underline his words, part bow, part sneer. „No enemies in sight. Just some empty boxes. A shame there is no ice left. The heat is unbearable at this time of day.“ Sala put gloved hands on his hips and looked at him with the indignant mistrust that clung to fools like flies to honey.

„Good for you. If it hadn’t been this way, we could have thrown you right next to the civilians.“ He crossed his arms in front of his chest, left brow propped up high. „What would you have done, huh? Taken a group picture before they blow your brains out?“

„By all means, there are more interesting subjects in this war I’d like to capture, Sir,“ replied Stefano. His eyes cast down in humble manner if only to avoid seeing Sala’s ugly face. Intention aside, he was dead serious. The uniforms of their enemies were wan and their faces covered by paint and earth-green stealth. To him, they all looked alike; creamy cockroaches carrying steel helmets taped with dirt and dents. He took copious photographs of them when he had visited the detention camp three weeks ago. He was most fond of a particular shot where maggots feasted on a corpse’s rotten eye and could barely await it gain colour in the darkroom.

Sala stood before him, hands again resting on his hips like a vice strangling his own body, mouth a thin, chewed up line.

„‚More interesting subjects,‘“ he repeated slowly. „Well well. Guess we’re just not interesting enough for your artistic needs?“

Stefano did not answer. He did not think he had to. Sala spit on the floor, the saliva shining on long dead wood panel.

„Get your ass outta here before I kick it myself.“ A crease carved on Stefano’s forehead.

„Charming as always.“ He carefully tucked his camera in his shoulder bag and walked past Sala, head up high. „Too bad my derriere is not the only thing you‘ll never grasp. Sense of direction might be another.“

Sala’s grime-stained fingers wrapped around his cotton-clothed forearm and brought him to a halt.

„What was that?“ he asked lowly. Stefano smelled unbrushed teeth in his breath. Visceral disgust found entrance to his brain. „Don’t like the way I run things, Valentini? Tell me about it. You’re seldom shy.“

„We’ve went around in circles for three days, _Sir_.“ Stefano gazed up only to see Sala’s expression darken.

„If you’re a wandering compass now, the floor is yours. Or, even better, how about you try to survive on your own for a change? The insistent complains you spew don’t really lighten the mood either.“ His nails, cracked at the edges, dug deeper, searching bone. „You damage the moral of the group.“ Stefano sneered.

„I’m awfully sorry that I, unlike our soldier boys, speak my mind instead of headlessly following a leader who can’t lead in the right direction.“ His focus fixed on the grained dirt unter Sala’s cuticles. „Let go of my arm. I’ve got my knife with me.“

„So do I,“ Sala said. The dull glow in his black pupils told Stefano it was no weapon of steel he would have pulled out now. Every inch of his skin crawled in retreat. They had all been frustrated in more ways than one since they arrived here.

Sala let him go at last, grinning. And Stefano, albeit pride would blur the truth of his particular pace, hurried to bring as much distance between them as possible. He entered the adjacent room, his harsh steps raising dust clouds around his feet. They fit the built-up of his rage; he could feel it already ignite under the thin sheet of his sunburnt skin.

He would probably not have noticed the bottle if daylight had not fallen through a crack in the ceiling and blinded him. But it did and Stefano squinted his eyes, turning his head to his right when he would have rather turned left towards the outlet.

It lay sideways at the other end of the room, wine gurgling inside. A sparkling, tubular vessel, squeezed into the highest compartment of a shelf that leaned obliquely against the edge of an old, sturdy table.

Personally, Stefano thought it a huge FUCK YOU the physical laws had provided themselves that neither the shelf had yielded fully nor the table had moved backwards enough to free the wine from its floating clasp of impending death. Almost lyrical, the situation. He gazed at it in childlike astonishment. Only now he realized how arid the air was that he breathed; and how meager their water resources had grown during their wandering.

„Valentini,“ it yapped at his back and put him out of his daze.

„Just a minute.“ Curious, he advanced the strange display. „I still need a photo of the corpses.“ Sala snorted.

„Didn’t you say-“

„I meant _soldiers_ , not civilians,“ Stefano said absently. „You can’t portray the tragedy of war without proof that the innocent have been slaughtered too.“ Sala huffed.

„ _Assurdo_! **We** are the innocent. I’ve got a fiancee’s waiting at home.“

„My condolences to her confused state of mind and vision then.“

The closer he came, the brighter the glass seemed to twinkle at him; like a trinket, amicable to a magpie’s eye. He climbed on top of the desk and kneeled on it, stretching his arms for the bottle, careful not to bump the shelf by accident. Ignoring Sala’s incessant talk, he managed to grasp the bottleneck with his fingertips, pulling it closer to him on its cap. The endeavor turned out to be more difficult than factored in when the bottle proved its sturdiness with which it had kept itself in that corner.

„Don’t expect me to help if that shelf falls on you. We should have left this place already; it’s too quiet in here,“ Sala announced briskly behind him. Stefano would have let his hands speak to that if they wouldn’t have been occupied otherwise.

Just when he was about to give up, the bottle rolled an inch towards him as if for mercy. Head-first it slipped into his open palms. Pleased with himself, Stefano hopped off the table and studied his loot from all sides. A thick layer of dust had gathered around it, but aside from that it seemed in perfect shape. Stefano wiped a clean stripe with his gloved thumb to read the writing on the label. A Chardonnay from France, filled in 1985. Stefano smiled to himself. What a great vintage.

His smile froze when he removed his thumb and the glass beneath reflected the red aiming point of a sniper rifle.

He was granted four seconds to react before the bullet hit the glass and splintered it into lime green fragments. He turned his head away just in time before the broken pieces could drill into his eyes. Wine splashed on the floor, watering the table, dust and death. He let the dripping bottleneck fall to the ground as the second shot exploded in his eardrum, this time barely missing the nape of his neck.

„Down!“ Sala shouted, but due to the sharp ring that had started to clug Stefano’s ears, he sounded distant and hollow. He remained motionless in reply, paralyzed by shock as his own pulse speed up in panic; he could do no more than bear it as the blood hammered in his veins. 

Sala cursed his stasis, cursed the world, cursed him, followed by the familiar clink of a machine-gun when more shots came through the windows and bore into the walls, plaster rilling down. Somewhere glass was breaking, a rough yell dangerously close to their position. It took a third bullet springing up inches beside his feet that had Stefano’s body remember to function and urged him to crawl under the table for protection, limbs curled in. Even though his movements were fast and choppy, everything around seemed to have set in slow-motion by now.

Nevertheless, it wasn't like in the movies.

(Oh, it never was.)

No background music, neither of classical nor melancholic nature, accompanying his every shudder, no trumpets deafening shots, no mourning violins drowning out his panting breath. Only clamor and noise rising in combat, his own heartbeat swinging back and forth between his ribs like an anvil gone loose; the insistent lack of knowledge of whether the ground trembled beneath or oneself. He would think about that most during later years. How he had become one with the earth that shook, the rootless screams and the ugly, dysplastic essence of his own fear moulding his nerves into liquid clay; his weak form, caught in the eye of ruin, beautiful yet deadly.

And past all that, past all the horrible and terribly human convulsions… excitement.

Excitement. Adrenaline; the animal’s kiss and tongue. Generous drug. Blood and guts.

His fingers itched, but he didn’t know what for. Yet.

Time stretched and shrank in hurried measure like an organism learning to breathe, the only pause pinpointed by the reloading of guns and muffled instructions given for better aim. It all came down to a smoke bomb thrown into the middle of the room that had Stefano’s lung and eyes sting alike. He creeped further into the small space, the weight of the shelf above his head still somehow present in his mind even though it apparently had no intention to move a single inch had the sky itself collapsed on it. He wrapped his arms around his knees, squinting onward, muscles taut.

His thoughts grew more feverish by the minute. He had no weapon on him but his serrated knife; it would pale in comparison to the Ak-47 their enemy preferred to carry. He had been taught how to throw it into a man’s heart if necessary, but considering the number of voices he had located outside the store, this would have proven no less than a suicide mission.

There was always the slight chance he would be taken prisoner since he barely presented a threat and was no soldier to begin with, but he knew, depending on the men’s temper he was captured by, worse fates than death could await the prisoners of war; he had seen and photographed three of them so far. Precious, precious pictures.

Scenes he, for a change, did not yearn to be part of.

It was quieter now. The voices had not vanished, yet lowered to bide the effect their little toy had.

Stefano could do no more than wait until the dust had settled enough to reveal a shadowy frame a few meters from his position. He could say for certain that the thought of it being his despised group-leader had never fulfilled him with such relief as it did now.

„Sala?“ He licked his dry lips. His voice was a coddled whisper in the afterglow of destruction. „Andrea, are you- “

The last layer of yellowish gray dispersed. The words wedged in his throat when he spotted the man’s remnants at last.

Andrea Sala had his broad back turned on him as if in last mocking. A large, damp hole gaped where his hinder skullcap had resided. Blood, bone fragments and brain matter oozed as a white-red melange on wood and remained stuck in rusty-blond hair follicles. His left arm - the one not holding the machine-gun to his chest like a child its stuffed animal - sticked out in an unnatural, almost comical way while his legs lay entangled like wool.

He did not budge at his name. Stefano stared and swallowed the bile that threatened to climb up his throat. A wave of despair washed over him like goosebumps.

He would die.

 _Oh God_ , he would _die_.

The thought strapped around his brain like a tourniquet.

 **No** ; he was too young. He was _ambitious_. He had not shown the world a single ounce of what he was capable of yet! If he died now, no one would know that he had existed - and how great his loss to humanity actually was.

Pained by the sole concept, he brushed away a stray tear that had gathered in the corner of his right eye.

He did not **want** to die. Not like this. Not here, far from civilization, curled up like an abandoned infant under the table of a grocery store in nowhere; his limp sack of flesh and sweat one of many, trampled over by boots, defiled by pests, nameless, fallen. Unappreciated.

He had not been born with dreams so big and a vision so grand to perish like a common dog. If that was the fate he was bestowed with, hell hath no fury than a man betrayed by evolution or God; he should have never been born at all.

The edged weight of his camera nudged his knee as if aching for consolation. It helped him, if only to find himself back into reality. He blinked, tasting the wry smile that had creeped up his bitten lips without consent.

Mechanically, wistfully, his fingers fumbled for his loyal tool, pulled it out of the bag and in front of the corpse, zooming in. No matter the odds; there was still something he could do. Something he had always done. To shed a light in the dark; even if his own darkness stood near, fanning over his neck.

He took the shot, the click the only clear sound in the borrowed silence. He made three attempts until he was sure his hands would not tremble and affect the quality of the photograph too much. 

Then, Stefano remained, still shaking; but this time, not out of fear.

The face, he wondered - what was left of Sala’s _face_? Was his mouth still open from words unsaid? Did he have the time to scream before death tucked him in?

What did the bullet do to his eyes when pain had exploded inside their core? His dumb black peasant eyes.

The backside’s condition was not enough to give information about any that. Every fibre of Stefano‘s being yearned to know, to touch; to see. 

And there, in one remote corner of his mind, it whispered lovingly that the machine-gun Sala clung to might be his only chance to survive. It faintly sounded like his mother, albeit rougher in texture and raspier in tone. In the end, she hardly had the strength left to whisper.

Seconds whirred like flies in the room. He had not much time to hesitate. 

Leaving the bag under the table, he crouched down on all fours, slowly crawling through the treacherous sunlight, knife on his hip and the camera in his hand. A string of sweat trickled down his brow, unacknowledged by its bearer.

His movements appeared awkward in their wake, yet no less purposive as he dragged himself along. Each moment he expected to hear another volley of bullets perforate the dry, unkind ground and him with it, but nothing happened. He was not sure what exactly this dramatic break had caused but he hoped it was no incoming reinforcement testing the water before they decided to burst in.

The pungent smell of urine and open flesh tainted the air when he reached the corpse and got a decent look at its front at last.

Sala’s eyes were wide and glassy and still had that distinct moment of foolish surprise carved into them when his skin had already began to cool off. Stefano adjusted his lens and took a picture of the stark terror chiseled into the rest of Sala‘s waxen features underneath, the contrary beauty of the entire image an impact unmatched.

It was vicious, it was authentic; it was exquisite in its agony. Stefano realized that he’d have probably caught a bullet himself for that shot.

It was then that a grenade blew up outside the store that had him almost drop the camera with shock. Judging by the screams that followed, it had not been one of the enemies’ side. He looked up, curiosity ever getting the better of him, and was greeted by the hunch of shadows urging into the sun, yells and calls of voices he knew all too well. He immediately identified Leone and Vitali at the frontline, shouldering their rifles as they looked for a decent position to fire from. He never believed hearing their rough baritones would take a load off his mind, but they did. _Diamine_ , they did.

He ripped the machine-gun from Sala’s rigid arms and ran to the back area as fast as he could. Inside, he climbed into one of the freezers, knees almost fully bent to fit into the small place. He briefly considered to go back and get his bag before it was spotted, but decided against it when another small explosion shook the place, even closer than the last one.

Maybe one of their enemies had a map, he thought. If just one member of his group able to work a rifle survived the battle, perhaps he would reach the base in perfectly fine condition after all. Yes, scratched but fine; like shards glued together by molten gold as the Japanese did.

Outside rang the echo of a battle fought and the curt commands of young men on the loose. Soldiers from his country, beasts from the other. He put his camera close to his harsh-beating heart and waited with bated breath for someone to kick the door open or till the last shot would bore into a scared, starving belly. He would not dare to move before either of them did.

All the while, the corpse‘s vacant eyes stared at him, engraved in his mind. He stared back, unyielding, his own pulse even more prominent as it was in the other‘s absence. He was equally terrified and enraptured by the sensation of it.

 _Andrea Sala is dead._ he mouthed. His moment of death, framed for eternity, preserved by him. A picture even more brilliant than the one with the maggots and it lay in his hands, cradled like a child. Despite the situation he was in, all he could do was smile, the gun pressed to his bandana-covered cheek. Smile. Smile and shake, his breath reeking of dust and destruction and death.

 

_Long live Andrea Sala._

 

 

* * *

 

 

He did not announce himself with anything that would usually predict a ghost.

The room did not cool down by several degrees, the clocks neither stopped nor announced midnight. No moans from hanged throats, no sighs, no fingernails scratching on chalkboards.

He was just there. And Stefano was neither pleased nor disinclined to see him. Or to feel, to be more precise. The first hunch of his presence he got were two eyes stabbing daggers in his back.

„I understand now what you like about him. He is so... exceptional. In his own way,“ he said over his shoulder. He turned and leaned against the noble mahogany table that stretched the room from one wall to the other, the wine-glass a well-known weight in his hand.

„The first one who has torn my shackles without fear, mind you.“

The man in the white coat did not answer. Stefano took a sip. Funny; the Chardonnay tasted rather dull in comparison to Sebastian’s precum and salty skin. He wondered how his visitor’s reaction would be if he told him. But chances were he already knew.

Minutes of silence poured into the room. Stefano tilted his head. Could he speak at all? As far as he heard, they had removed everything back then; tongue included.

„I think we did not have the pleasure of meeting yet. Ruvik, if I remember correctly? Mobius agents talk about you often.“

Again, nothing. No reaction. The hood hung low in his face, yet it was not hard to spot the flood of burns that paved him from head to toe. Stefano’s mouth pinched. Not too inviting, the sight. More minutes of silence. The torn hem of the coat wavered in the void.

„Can I offer you something? As a wine drinker, I have several varieties to choose from. Something tells me you prefer a Chianti -“

„He’s mine. You will not have him.“

Seven words, clear and smooth like sanded glass. Stefano raised a brow. Well, Ruvik _could_ talk then. But where Stefano came from, one usually started the conversation with a greeting. For politeness’ sake.

„Excuse me?“ he asked. Were ghosts able to get annoyed still? Judging the crease that formed between hairless brows, they apparently could. Stefano was pleased by that.

„The man you have tied to your bed. He does not belong to you. Nor will he when you’re done. He’s off the table.“

Stefano let this sag for a second. Not only could he talk; he could be quite offensive too.

„So,“ he concluded slowly, „no wine then?“

Damned silence 2.0 set in. Stefano sighed.

„Well, this is pretty awkward. I’m just about to introduce him to my lifestyle. He's a stubborn one, but I'm sure with the right bait at hand I’ll manage his cooperation in no time. Something you did not succeed in, did you?“

If looks could kill. Stefano guessed they really had back when he was in control.

„He was as useful as I needed him to be. I was in full control of every action he took. He is mi-“

„Put another record on, please. I’m bored easily and you’re repeating yourself,“ Stefano interrupted sharply. The wine swirled in idle motions. He took a long sip before he continued. „Besides, if he's yours as you so dearly claim, I fail to understand why you left him without even telling him goodbye or give him any hints about your recent location. You're no longer in the STEM from what I know, you took flight soon as it was offered. But _I_ am here. Willingly.“ He put the emptied glass on the table. Letting his fingertip run along the rim, he took the last drop of red clinging on it. He led the finger to his mouth and smeared it along his lower lip like balm. „And I have no intention to go anywhere else.“

The ghost gave a dry snort.

„Too bad. He wants out,“ he said, nearly gleeful this time. Stefano glared lazily at him.

 „For now, yes. But once we have the Core, there’ll be no more reason for him to leave.“ 

He briefly imagined the scenario himself. Almost believable, yes; the harmonious reunion of a father and his daughter. Him at the side of the room, the silent observer capturing the peace till his boredom took over. Maybe too bourgeois for his taste, but these days everything might grow on him once he could shape it to his liking afterwards. And _shape_ he would.

(He had never stopped.)

„This is my world now - and I'm going to consort with _your_ Sebastian as _I_ think is right. Finders keepers and all that,“ Stefano said gently.

The apparition glowed like a lightbulb shortly before its blow.

„He does not rely on beings like you.“ 

Stefano put a hand to his chest in mock offense. 

„Beings like me? I’d assume you’re speaking from your own experience if it didn’t sound as if you ranked yourself higher than me. A shame, really. I always thought we were on a level with each other. Exceptional, obsessed, talented; in search of something we can never have. Not in reality, at least.“

„We are not the same, in no aspect. You're just a cuckoo that has got it made,“ Ruvik spat. Stefano cocked his head. He could have been more disappointed he mused, but wasn’t. Rather, he was annoyed. Only the reminder that Sebastian waited in one of his rooms kept his spirits up enough to hold his smile.

He turned, facing the desk. 

„Creating a world does not make you worth ruling it. I have earned my place in here by moulding its very fabric to my wishes. What have you done but let it all go down the drain?“

He reached under the table. His fingers tapped over smooth, textured wood until he felt the handle of the knife he had placed there.

„Go back to your reality and his unruly subconscious where you belong and wilt away.“ He grabbed it, breathing out as the metal pressed against his palm. „After tonight, everything that will exist in his mind is the imprint that I have left on him. And you? You are history. Someone he was glad to forget. _Someone_ -“

He spinned around in a frenzy only to find Ruvik had already gone, vanished in thin air. A few flakes of blood stained the spot where he had stood. Stefano stared. Time trickled into the empty room.

„Rude,“ he muttered at last. Sullen, he lowered the knife. „He could have bid farewell at least. But old habits die hard, I guess.“ He sighed and put the weapon back under the table. Heading out the door, he raked his fingers through his still slightly damp hair to regain his composure. „Well. All the more time to look after my canvas!“ he cried into the hallway. If Ruvik’s apparition heard him, it didn’t care to show itself which angered Stefano all the more.

Keeping the pace he snatched a second bottle out of the cabinet on his way, this time purposefully choosing a Single Malt Whisky. An old one. A _good_ one. Something told him Sebastian had a knack for those.

But first, a quick check in front of his mirror. He couldn’t appear dishevelled for the final stage of his shoot. A soft hum on his lips, he went to his dressing room, the sound of his steps on parquet barely audible without his shoes.

He almost dropped the bottle when he got there and turned on the light. The slender, old mirror he had been so fond of had splintered in its midst, blood dripping through the cracks and ruining the ground beneath. He stared at the mess as ten fragmented copies of his face reflected towards him, incredulous, body tense. His grip around the bottleneck tightened till his knuckles shone bloodless and pale.

„What a sore loser!“ He turned on his heel exiting the room, one eye sizzling blue, the other lit by blatant fury: „Now, where was I?“

 

He was more than ready to get back to work.

And he was definitely not in the mood to be refused a second time of what was _his_.

**Author's Note:**

> Well well,
> 
> so, this was the first part of that big ass OS I had in store for what seemed like years now. I've started to write this based on trailers and short Gameplays while being unaware of the plot of Tew2 itself and I plan to finish it in the same way. Which means if you find anything not fitting into the canon be sure it was done so on purpose because I simply didn't know it better. Thus I made some creative jumps into unknown territory - which is basically what fanfiction is for anyway.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this first part. It's also the first time I've written explicit smut like that and Stefano in general so please let me know what you think. Comments are the bread crumbs authors like me feast on <'3
> 
> A lovely day or night,  
> Kefka
> 
> PS: Since I will only be able to play Tew2 myself in December due to university and other thingies, I'd really appreciate it if you would not put any spoilers aka Tew2 facts in your comments. I want to play the game as blind as possible once I get my hands on it. :'3


End file.
